The city hadn't changed.
It still smelled like smoke, gasoline, and secrets.
Elena Romano stepped out of the sleek town car, her heels striking the cobblestones as though Rome itself needed to be reminded she was back. Neon lights flickered above, half-dead from neglect, while shadows curled like watchful eyes in the alleys. This city devoured the weak. She had sworn she would never belong to it again.
Yet here she was.
Her father's estate loomed ahead, opulent and cold, a palace built not from honest wealth but from blood bargains and silent wars. She had lived abroad for years, working hard to separate herself from the stink of the mafia world. But blood was a chain she couldn't break.
"Signorina Romano," the driver murmured, taking her suitcase. "Your brother awaits you inside."
Elena lifted her chin. Her brother. Antonio. Always reckless, always too proud. She had heard whispers even in Paris—debts, bad deals, trouble with dangerous men. Coming home meant facing those whispers.
She stepped into the estate's marbled hall, her eyes adjusting to the soft golden glow of chandeliers. Then she froze.
He was there.
Marco DeLuca.
Leaning against the staircase with a glass of whiskey in hand, he was every inch the nightmare she remembered: dark hair swept back, a tailored suit hugging broad shoulders, his presence sharp and consuming like a blade. His family had been rivals and uneasy allies to the Romanos for decades. To Elena, he had always been danger personified—untouchable, merciless, magnetic.
And now, he was smiling at her.
"Elena," he said, his deep voice wrapping around her like velvet dipped in poison. "Welcome home."
Her heartbeat stuttered, betraying her. She hated that his voice still had that effect on her, hated that the years apart hadn't dulled the memory of the way he once looked at her as though she were something he wanted to ruin.
"Marco," she replied coolly. "I wasn't told the devil would be visiting tonight."
He chuckled, the sound low and rich. "Still sharp. I was worried time abroad might have softened you."
"I didn't come back for you."
"Pity." He tipped his glass, eyes raking over her with deliberate slowness. "You've grown into something… dangerous."
Her pulse kicked harder, fury and unwanted heat tangling together. She opened her mouth to retort, but then—
"Elena!" Antonio entered, moving fast, his embrace quick but tight. She gasped softly when she saw the bruise on his jaw.
"What happened to you?" she demanded, pulling back to study his face.
Antonio tensed, but before he could speak, Marco's voice cut in smoothly.
"Your brother has been gambling with shadows," he said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "And shadows always collect their debts."
Elena turned sharply toward him, eyes blazing. "And you're the one holding the knife, aren't you?"
Marco smirked. "Business, bella. Nothing personal."
She wanted to slap him, to wipe that smugness from his perfect face. But when he stepped closer—so close she caught the scent of whiskey and danger clinging to his skin—her breath faltered.
"Careful, Elena," he murmured, his lips grazing close to her ear. "In this city, business and pleasure often overlap."
Her body betrayed her with a shiver. Damn him. Damn the fire in her blood.
In that instant, she knew one thing: staying away from Marco DeLuca would be impossible.